


Taking Care

by Ophelia Coelridge (daemonluna)



Category: Hard Core Logo (1996)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-01-05
Updated: 2001-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:32:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daemonluna/pseuds/Ophelia%20Coelridge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The old days. Joe is a pushy son of a bitch. Billy is cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking Care

Joe lies on his back across the aging mattress, eyes closed, ankles crossed and arms flung out like an indolent crucifix. Billy sits at the foot, slouched against the wall. He cradles his battered, precious Fender and absently picks out random chords and scraps of melody. The one-room apartment is icy-cold, cold enough that their breath hangs wraith-like in the air.

"No man, do 'Blue Tattoo' again. You're still weak on the lead-in," Joe instructs.

"Yeah, you just don't want me to notice that you just swiped my last smoke."

"Worked, didn't it?" Joe grins, squinting at him with one eye open, and butts the cigarette out on the scarred windowsill.

"You owe me," Billy says darkly, finger and thumb a pistol extended in an arrow-straight line towards the culprit. Bang. Charged and convicted.

"Sure, sure." Joe waves him off, unimpressed. Billy scowls, and gives it up as a lost cause. He rubs his arms in a futile attempt to generate heat, and starts to play again.

"Bucky Haight is a fuckin' genius," Joe says reverently, with the absolute assurance of youth.

"Sure," Billy says non-committally.

"That should be a sharp, not a flat," Joe adds.

"You wanna do it yourself?" Billy snaps in return. "It's freezing in here. I can't feel my fucking fingers."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch," Joe says lazily, eyes still shut.

"Screw you too," Billy grumbles. "Why don't you just--" He starts to cough, thin shoulders jerking convulsively. This is not the first bout in the past few hours, but when it shows no sign of stopping, Joe frowns and props himself up on his elbows.

"Hey, you okay?"

"Just--fine," Billy chokes out, and starts coughing again. It is the clogged, painful sound of a struggle for air where each breath leads to another spasm. He fights for breath, and starts to gag.

"Hey, hey. Take it easy. Go slow, one breath at a time." Joe is sitting up now, leaning forward, glass-green eyes gone flat and pale with worry.

"Okay. I'm okay," Billy gasps finally, breath rasping in his throat. "Just too fucking cold and damp."

"You're lucky I'm the lead singer if your voice is that shot. C'mere then." Joe pulls the worn blanket up off the floor.

"S'okay."

"William Boisy, you get yer skinny ass over here," Joe drawls.

"F-Fuck you Joe, that's just too creepy. You sound like my mom," Billy rasps.

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the great Billy Tallent has mastered the difficult art of breathing, let's give him a big hand. I fucking meant it, Billiam, c'mere." Joe shakes the too-thin blanket commandingly.

Billy sighs melodramatically, puts down the guitar, and obediently crawls across the bed to huddle under the blanket beside Joe.

Joe pulls him closer. Billy doesn't object. Even at fifteen, Joe is solid, and he radiates heat. Held in an awkward tangle of arms and legs, head tucked under Joe's chin, bit by bit Billy relaxes and finally stops shivering.

"You're too fucking skinny," Joe says fondly.

"What-the-fuck-ever," Billy counters sleepily.

Joe's arms tighten around him. "You're still coughing bad in the morning, we go to the clinic," he says warningly.

"Yes mom," Billy says promptly, earning himself an elbow in the ribs for his troubles.

"Fuck that. I'm not just saying it, Billy. I fucking mean it. Really mean it."

"Say it, mean it. Aw'right, we'll go," Billy mutters, burying his face against Joe's chest.

"Damn straight," Joe grumbles. "Can't have a band if my fucking lead guitarist up and dies on me."

"What'd you do if I did?" Billy murmurs sleepily in reply.

"Kick your scrawny ass to hell and back," Joe says sternly, ignoring the icy chill that spiders down his spine at the thought.

"Pushy son 'f a bitch." Billy is fighting sleep and barely coherent.

"And don't you forget it. Now shut up and go to sleep."

Billy makes a drowsy sound of assent and, god help him, nestles in closer.

Joe stares unseeingly at the peeling paint and milk-crate furnishings and listens to the raspy wheeze of Billy's breath.

"You're not gonna--you're not gonna fucking die," Joe says softly, voice harsh with fear. "You wouldn't do that to me, would you, Billy-boy."

No response. Billy, lulled by the steady thud of Joe's heartbeat beneath his cheek, has finally drifted off to sleep.

Joe leans forward and presses his cheek against the tousled head pillowed on his chest.

"You'd never leave me."


End file.
